


Recover

by kikibug13



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Implied Relationships, Reunions, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikibug13/pseuds/kikibug13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somebody almost snipes Steve Rogers down. Finding out who shifts the course of Steve's life. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [legete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/legete/gifts).



> Written for [steve_bucky holiday fic exchage](steve_bucky.livejournal.com) on livejournal, for legete!
> 
> There are implied Bucky/Steve and Bucky/Natasha past relationships, but the fic itself is Gen.
> 
> Betas: Sam, Lily, Sneak, Jag. Thank you!

It had been good, to feel in his bones (sometimes a bit more painful than he'd have liked, but still) that some things didn't have to be tied up with the past, or with any specific time. There were still bullies, still bad guys and good people to stand up against them, and still feeling a part of a team was better, a million miles better than being on his own. That part, Steve should have known, but he'd never had reason or _time_ to think about it.There had been him and Bucky, and then him and Bucky and the Howling Commandos and Peggy, and then Bucky had been gone, and things had happened so fast, after that. The months after he returned to life, there had been so many _new_ things that he hadn't managed to realize the importance of not being on his own. And then he _hadn't_ had a team, so now he knew the century didn't matter too much. When it was the right people, his life could still be good and right. 

Then they broke apart. Thor off to his realm, Stark to his company and his (and Bruce's) labs, Natasha and Clint off to their (sort-of) day jobs, and he was... drifting again. Sure, there was closer contact with Fury, now, and even occasional (well. Once, so far, and one appearance at a school he had agreed to - he wasn't going to return to dancing monkey status, but maybe talking to children would be different, he thought) job for him to do. But, mostly, he was back to being a man out of time. Wandering the still half-familiar only streets, learning how this time worked. Helping rebuild, where they would let him - easier in the first days, when it was necessary to clear the debris and everyone could do it, harder, after that, when they needed some qualifications. Still, those few days taught him more about the dynamics of New York today than the two, maybe three weeks before Fury had showed up. 

He went back to wandering, learning... and mourning his dead. There were even more of those, now, a mix of faces that had barely flashed before his eyes in the battle (he saw faster than other people, though. Those fleeting glances lasted longer), as well as the soft voice of a competent agent flustered over confusing - weirding out, Steve guessed - his hero. It was a surprise, that somebody of that age could still believe in heroes - somehow the older people he'd known didn't... really. They either believed in God, or in money, or in nothing hopeful, back in his day. But then, he'd figured out already that, even more than most people working for SHIELD, Agent Coulson had been extraordinary. 

But all that he put together for him, for... them. None of it made a difference. They were gone, and he, the man born so, so much longer ago than them, was up and about and in perfect health. The lab experiment, everything about him came from a bottle... Tony's jab hadn't been unfounded at all, even though, thankfully, it didn't stop either of them from doing what was necessary when they were needed. When they needed each other. 

_"Hey, Steve, did you se-- Golly, Steve! What happened?"_

_"Nothing. Nothing new, at least."_

_"Your lip's bleeding and your eye will be all-black in a half an hour. I **told** you to keep your head down, how come you can't--"_

_Steve looked away, and Bucky cuts himself short, already steering them to the diner toilets where he knew they'd let them in, to wet a rag and start dabbing the cold cloth against his face. It was all Steve could do, not to lean into the touch._

_"Nothing. I... started wheezing. Cole decided I was mocking him and took it out on me. No big."_

_Bucky's free hand reached to take Steve's, watching the bruised knuckles. Then he let it down, mouth twisting, and carded fingers through the blond hair. "It wasn't your fault, then."_

_Steve shrugged. And closed his eyes, the all-too-familiar concern on his friend's face almost hurting. "I guess."_

_"Kicks? Ribs?"_

_"No, I'm okay."_

_"Like hell you are."_

_"Bucky!"_

_"Breathing?"_

_Steve's eyebrows went up. He was clearly not wheezing, right? Bucky just **looked** at him back, and Steve sighed. It only rattled a little. "Getting better."_

_"Let's get you back into bed, anyway--"_

_"Bucky!"_

_"-- for a couple of hours, anyway. Can't get coffee today, but I'll try to get some tomorrow, so you have some for emergency."_

_"But you needed th--"_

_" **not** as much as you need to breathe, all right? And I'll have words with Cole."_

_There wasn't anything Steve could say or do, when Bucky got like this. A small part of him didn't **want** to, because what his friend did... he needed it. It was not fair to Bucky, and Steve was fully aware of that, to have to care for him. Bucky did it anyway. And when it was Buck's turn to nurse a hurt, from fighting (not very often) or from words (which he was oddly vulnerable to, despite his constant bluster and ridiculous humor), Steve did his best to make it up. Maybe it was working, or something to that effect. Steve was always surprised, catching himself carried away by talking about something and realizing his younger friend was hanging on his every word as though it was the best stuff he'd ever heard. _

_Maybe it was, too. Though it wasn't like Steve wasn't trying to get **him** to read, too. Which, when he made him, Bucky did well enough, he just preferred moving and talking and learning from people, instead. So when he got to learn from Steve about the rest..._

Steve shook his head, swallowing, and looked away from the alley that had reminded him of that day, and of Bucky's calloused hands gentle on his face. Relief. Comfort. They hadn't known, at all, what they'd had, each of them scrambling to learn about life and right and wrong and, though they'd been so close, never paying enough attention to each other.

Or maybe it'd been Steve only who had taken Bucky for granted. Because Bucky always won and always made it out of scrapes and he got punished, but he was fine, and sometimes neither of them knew if Steve would come down from the next asthma fit. Except it was the other way around, and, months later (months and _decades_ , later), it just struck him again, how much of an idiot he had been. Growing up. Even later, though finding out that Bucky was stuck behind enemy lines had been a bit of a wake-up call. 

Not enough.

And the tightness in his chest had nothing to do with asthma, anymore, but he seemed to have run out of tears. Only going on.

Steve sped up when he got to the park, easing into a jog (that would have been a steady run for most people) across the familiar pathways. His feet were carrying him in directions they remembered walking, because back then, he _couldn't_ do any more than that. But now he can and, more than that, now he needed more. To burn out the energy that his body generated, to try to ease his mind. Not that _that_ part worked very well, of course. He tried, anyway.

Tonight, as the setting sun painted the gray-and-brown near-winter treetops orange and he was on his fifth lap, there was suddenly a dark - no. Black-clad figure that fell into a graceful lope beside him. He blinked at the redhead, then couldn't help smiling, a bit.

"Aren't you supposed to be somewhere south?"

"Paraguay. And I came back."

"To run in the park?"

The huff she gave him was a mild version of a snort, not any sort of labored breathing. "Among other things."

"It wasn't a _long_ mission, was it?"

"No. We got there too late." There was a slight tightening of her voice, and she was looking straight ahead, as she answered. It took him by surprise that she told him that much. Natasha Romanoff was not necessarily a very sharing person, least of all when it came to failures. And yet... here she was. 

"Is there something _I_ could have done?"

"What?" She looked sideways, not breaking her stride. "No, of course not. It's probably nothing, a ghost from the past."

Ah. That explained it, then. He was the ultimate ghost of the past, in the flesh. 

"Has Stark been giving you trouble?"

The change of direction made him blink, then snort. "Tony and I are... good. Besides, he's busy with Dr. Banner."

"Now _that_ wasn't a combination I would have expected. I suppose Pepper has had some positive effect on him, but since I _am_ coming back to New York in better shape than it was, rather than exploded..."

Steve's turn to chuckle. It was surprising, still, to be able to do this after everything. But again... his team. "Clint come back all right?"

"Yeah. He's been home for hours, I'd guess, my debriefing took longer."

"So it was _your_ ghost of the pa--"

"You run here every night?"

Okay. That way was a no-go, as they said these days. 

"After we ran out of rubble to clear out, yeah. I mean, I could run _outside_ the city, but..." Small shrug. "I like the park."

" _Any_ thing giving you trouble?"

He snorted. "Lots of change, missing people, but it's gotten better, actually, after... the Avengers got together."

"Having people to be responsible for helps."

Not really a question, but Steve shrugged in response, anyway. "Beats being alone."

"I suppose it does."

Natasha wasn't panting, exactly, but her words were coming a tiny bit more clipped. They were finishing the second lap, too, so Steve just turned homewards without comment. She followed his lead flawlessly, without a comment. And then. It occurred to him.

"You're here to check on me."

"Not in so many words." Amusement tinted her voice, just a little. "But keeping an eye on people is a thing spies do. I just doubt sneaking up on you is very likely."

"I don't know, it's been a while since anybody tried."

They bantered, easy, slowing to a fast walk that they kept up until they reached his building. Then she smiled and faded in the shadows of (another) alley, and Steve shook his head at how close she got to becoming un-noticeable even to him. She was very good at what she did...

They all were. 

Steve was in a much better mood as he showered and settled to sleep than he'd been in for days. Tomorrow, there was a meeting in one of the on-ground secret SHIELD buildings, then going to another school. He still didn't know who he was supposed to be. But he felt better about it all.

 

He opened his eyes to the quiet sound of familiar voices. Familiar enough that he tried to sit up, and, for the first time in too long, he got dizzy from rising too quickly. Flopping back must have made a sound, since his shutting eyes caught two figures approaching in a rush, and a warm hand brushed over his forehead. 

"Steve?"

Yep. That voice got his eyes open right back up. "Peggy?"

"Relax, pal, take it easy. The _theory_ is that you might be good, after being frozen and revived, especially with the way you are, but we still don't know what it really does, all right?"

"Stark. Peggy. How..." Steve's lips were curling up, a little. How could they not, when Peggy's gentle fingers were still caressing his face. "I'm fine, I think. So... I didn't explode? I got frozen?" A part of his mind was telling him that he knew that. That he'd already woken up in a room that was supposed to be perfect but was all wrong, all made up, and it was in the future, and there was a different Stark, a different team... He quashed that. "The war?" _You know the answer to that one, Steve._

"Oh, it's over. Berlin's down in ruins, Hitler's disappeared, but the Third Reich's capitulated. Red Skull's not been heard from..."

"It's been years, Steve."

_That_ pulled Steve's smile down, and his eyes widened, meeting Peggy's. "I'm sorry. Our date..."

She shook her head and gave him a choked sob-laugh. "It's all right. You're here, and that's enough."

Steve reached to take her other hand and squeeze it, pointedly ignoring Stark's smirk. 

"Anyway. How'd you find me?"

"Well. I looked for the energy signature for a while, but _that_ cut off when we found the blue block. After that? It was sheer stubbornness. Wouldn't have happened if not for him." Stark nodded to the side, and this time Steve propped himself up slower, to look at the _other_ person in the room-- and froze.

For one moment, he just stared. The frame was too lean, where it leaned against the wall, his left side in shadow. He'd been _entirely_ too quiet, but those big eyes said it all - relief, tiredness, elation, worry, something that he didn't want to say... Steve opened his mouth to speak, to ask _how, you were dead?_ , to make him come closer--

\-- and he woke up.

Steve stared at the familiar pattern of blinds on the ceiling, trying to make his throat unclench. And his fists. That was... that was a new one. And the worst part was that Bucky had looked different, as though he fell but survived, somehow, and was still recuperating, _years_ later, and... and Steve just... didn't know what to do with that.

 

Steve didn't get any more sleep that night. It didn't make him _hazy_ at the meeting, but he wasn't _quite_ as sharp as he wanted to be. Not much harm done, though, all in all. It was routine update on low-key cleanup after Loki, and his input was barely wanted, let alone needed. He took notes to do some more research, at home, and then set off to the next task for the day. Which was easier, and also at the same time harder today. Sure, teenagers were boisterous and a lot of them didn't really care about much of what he had to tell, but then, some had grandparents and great-grandparents who remembered what he was talking about, and there would be people in _any_ age and place who'd recognize somebody actually trying to do something decent.

And these kids... today, when he looked around, he saw lots of Bucky, or what Bucky could be like, at least. Out there, pushing authority and scrounging by with as much of what he liked and as little of what he _didn't_ as he managed. Loud. Irreverent. But also seeing right from wrong. Oh, sure. There were bullies, and Steve spent a while just with the kids that were clearly shunned, for one reason or another. Not talking about anything special or embarrassing, but making them smile. Making them laugh was what Bucky would've done. But he wasn't here, so smiling would do.

It didn't happen until his visit was over, he was out of the building, and into the car waiting for him. He couldn't remember if there was any warning sensation - he hadn't been looking for any, at any rate, and hadn't moved faster, nor slower, than otherwise. The bullet hit the glass of the school door exactly behind where his head had been seconds ago.

Chaos erupted. 

Steve was whisked out of there before he could object, and then could only sit (pace... prowl) in the ops room and follow the situation from where it was monitored. There were no other shots. They'd found the sniper rifle a _very_ impressive distance away, clean of fingerprints, fibers, or anything else that could clue them in (even the part serial numbers had been carefully filed clean) as to the identity... and it was just abandoned there, as if the shooter left in a hurry. Even so, he didn't leave traces.

The school was evacuated. The security precautions tripled, and the ones on his own place doubled (he adamantly refused to relocate residence to the Helicarrier), and they still didn't want to let him go home. Not that he was overly eager to, not while this was... still unsolved. 

Clearly, the target had been him. Steve Rogers. Captain America. Clearly, the shooter had missed. By the state of the weapon, it was completely impossible to think the seconds delay was by chance - it was meticulously maintained, used, upgraded, and set up initially. So whoever it was had missed on purpose. Was that a message? Except there was nothing else. The weapons that Steve had fought before freezing, like the ones of the Chitauri, were entirely different. 

And if it wasn't a message, what could it _be_?

It wasn't until the small hours of the morning that things started calming down, out of sheer exhaustion and lack of anything to go on _on_. Steve... couldn't sleep, however. Not even after the previous night and _its_ lack of rest. There had to be something for him to get a hold on, but he was not allowed back near the site of the shooting, he couldn't get anything out of the gun (other than be impressed by the progress in that, too, and miss his own sniper for a chest-tightening flash)... he didn't want to go home.

So he wandered. Back to the familiar streets and alleys. Watching over the old neighborhoods in their new garb. 

Eventually, his feet led him back to a street he hadn't visited since he came back. Not in person, at least. This... was where he and Bucky first got out of the orphanage _to_. Well, the street - the big red-brick building just short of the corner that had been torn down, he was told, nearly thirty years ago when the owners had decided it was cheaper to rebuild than maintain. That part didn't surprise him, it had been a mess in the thirties; it must have gotten worse only, in the fifty years that followed. The new owners made sure that the usual homeless stayed away from it, too. 

Except tonight, there was a figure curled up on the pavement, back against the building. It stank, the man seemed to have thrown up, and he was huddled over himself. Shuddering. 

"Sir? Do you need help?" 

He was moving closer and speaking up before he could reconsider. If it was just a drunk, he'd leave him alone. If not, well. Not like he could let himself with just leaving him there. 

Steve crouched by the figure on the ground, reached to grasp a shoulder, and then the man looked up at him from under long, only seemingly shaggy hair. The eyes were hollow and sunken and wild, confused and, after a moment passed and recognition set in, almost panicked. 

They, and the face they looked out of, made him wonder if he wasn't dreaming _again_.

They remained speechless for a full few minutes, gazes locked. And then Steve's motion to reach for the other man's shoulder completed. 

" _Bucky!_ "

"Who the hell's Bucky?" The voice was raw, rasping. Too tremulous to be a growl, but it was probably trying for that. 

Didn't matter, the question cut right through Steve's chest, anyway. 

"I-- what? You are."

Silence. Steve could hear the buzz of cars on the nearest traffic artery, but, at this hour, this street was quiet. He could hear Bucky's breathing. It was... labored. Shaky.

"Buck... come on. You're scaring me."

That got a laugh out of the younger man (except he looked older, now. Not _old_ old. Just... older than when Steve last saw him, and that was just not possible. It wasn't, right?) and the laugh was darker than anything Bucky had ever uttered. It was downright frightening. Steve just pursed his lips, but Bucky was talking. 

"You _should_ be scared, yanno? I've gotta kill you. Was going to, too, except you looked up, and you didn't see me, but I saw you, looking at me like you are now. And I couldn't take the shot. I always take the shot..."

"Bucky!"

"Repeatin' that doesn't make any difference. Doesn't mean a thing to me." Bucky ran a hand over his face. It only smeared the drying bit of vomit along his cheek, and Steve winced. Bucky would be disgusted if he was fully aware, but there was a... a _look_ about him. There was something going on with his head, and it wasn't clear. The thought that somebody somehow messed with that (on top of the fact that _Bucky was apparently alive!_ Somehow...) made gooseflesh stand out along Steve's arms. Chilling. "Who're you, anyway?"

The blond swallowed. That was... quite the question, wasn't it. "You don't _remember_ , is that it? At all? I'm Steve. Steve Rogers. We're friends, we... we kinda grew up together, you know? Orphans, and then school together until you dropped out to get a job. Then you got us a dingy room up in the attic of the building that used to be here." Steve reached his free hand to knock, lightly, on the wall behind Bucky's back. "You'd take care of me when I got sick."

"... why'd I have to..." Bucky choked, and for a moment, his puzzled faced look painfully familiar, underneath the grizzle and the stubble and the - Steve could notice them now - the scars. "My head hurts. It's all confused..."

It was all the invitation Steve was likely to get, so he leaned over, taking both sides of Bucky's face in his hands. "Hey, then let me take care of you, all right? Let me try and help figur--"

Just like that, the smaller man was in motion. Somehow, he managed to push him - _him!_ up and away, spin them around, and throw Steve back against the wall. His left knuckles pressed into Steve's windpipe, and, try as he might, the _supersoldier_ could only scrabble against the arm. It felt as hard and implacable as steel. As Iron Man's suit.

The familiar large eyes, frosted unfamiliarly, were way too close to his face. "Don't. Come. Near me. I'm _assigned_ to kill you, and I may yet manage it. That'd make my life a lot simpler, you know. I follow orders. I'm the _best_ they've got. And then, suddenly, there's you. What's the _matter_ with me?"

He threw his arms in the air, releasing Steve, and for a moment, he needed to catch his breath. Then he reached, his superhuman speed in action, and gripped the other man's shoulders, keeping their faces still into each other. Couldn't much speak, yet, though his throat was mending with each breath, so he wheezed, "Bucky..."

And then. 

Then, there was a look, for only a moment. Bucky blinked, as though to clear his eyes, and the scowl if his brows changed. Softened, somehow. "St-Steve?" Gloved fingers - his right hand - reached, slowly, down to touch one cheek.

Steve stilled, trying to keep even his breathing to the shallowest his bruised throat would permit, not blinking, just holding that wide-eyed gaze with his. "Yeah. It's me. I'm... come. Let me help you. Whoever ordered you..."

Somehow, the eyes widened even more before hardening again. Bucky stepped back, shaking his head. "They'll come after you again. And they'll come after me."

Just like that, he set off running towards the nearest fire escape, none of the shaking or uncertainty hampering him as he sort of ran up the wall to the lowest level, and then disappeared towards the roofs. By the time Steve's mind stopped reeling enough to follow, he was nowhere to be seen. Steve tried to find _any_ tracks to follow, but only a few minutes showed him he just... couldn't. And he was way too exposed, here.

The next couple of days - maybe more. Less than a week, at any rate - were a blur. Steve tried to talk with someone, _any_ one about it, and just... couldn't. Who'd believe him? (A part of his mind reminded him that this was the group that had just fought off an _alien invasion led by a Norse god_. They were prepared to deal with something like that. The words still couldn't come out of his lips.) So he paid as close attention on the investigation as he could manage the focus for, stayed as safe as he was trained to do, and tried to look for clues on his own. 

There was nothing. 

The evening after the first snowstorm for the season, Steve worked himself silly on the exercise equipment. He knew he was overdoing it, but at least now Tony and Bruce had made sure he had stuff he _couldn't_ break yet would challenge him, and he used it to the optimum. And further. Trying to shut his mind off.

When he was done, he climbed up to his rooms above the training area, stepping onto the balcony to cool down, rubbing his face. 

"Steve."

The quiet voice made him spin about, only to find the now-familiar figure crouching on the parapet, back against the wall and eyes, now very much focused and alert, keeping the lookout over the quiet streets visible from his vantage point. Steve swallowed, calming himself down. Then. Just looked at him. It had been so _long_ , goddammit. 

At length, he managed a sigh, and spoke. "You're alive."

The generous mouth twisted and Bucky didn't look away from his constant surveillance. His mere presence here was proof enough that the caution wasn't misplaced. "For now."

"What--"

"Can I ask you something?" 

Steve blinked. "Yeah, of course." After everything, even _aside_ from the fact that he was _alive_ , mysterious as that was, Bucky had basically saved his life. Again. And, despite whatever the confusion was that plagued him, he'd not touched any of the civilians - of the _children_ that might have been harmed if he'd completely lost it. So... yeah. Whatever it was, Steve owed him. Again. His own curiosity would have to wait.

"I remember... snatches. Bits and pieces. Some of them don't make sense. Some of them don't seem _possible_. Some of them..." Bucky went silent. For a few moments, all that happened were the little puffs of warmer air, visible each time one of them breathed out. Neither seemed to be bothered by the cold, Steve's mind remarked idly. 

He almost made a noise to encourage Bucky to go on, when he spoke again. 

"But there was one night. We're... in a bar or something like that. England, probably, by strips of conversation that I get. Anyway. I go about, talking to the ladies. Dancing with one or two of them as-- as the men sing. They sing well, and I brag about that to a redhead. She's wearing a blue dress. Lights a cigarette when we're through with dancing. She's got a nice laugh, and she leans to pat my cheek, and I let her."

Steve could remember that night, actually. The redhead had been pretty memorable, and, later, they had laughed that, before the serum, the cigarette smoke from Bucky's hair alone would have set off an asthma attack. He swallowed. 

"And there are other ladies, too. I make them laugh. It's... more than flirting. But no matter what, I always know where you are. I keep an eye on you. Like something's gonna happen if I don't."

Steve snorted, quietly. "Buck, you got a decade and a half, near, at least, of watching over me, and I gave you plenty enough reason to worry, between health problems and picking on guys bigger and meaner than me. 'course you were keeping an eye on me."

Bucky was quiet for a moment, but his eyes jumped to Steve before resuming their surveillance. "So it's real? It... and when you were." Beat. "Smaller." 

"Yeah."

Silence. 

"I think it was more than just that."

And, like that, Steve's mouth went dry. But he forced the answer out, anyway. "Maybe."

God help them both.

"I see."

"Bucky..."

"Set up cameras there," he pointed at one corner, "and there and there." Two more rooftops. "Good motion sensors should cover getting to this spot the way that I did."

"You're going away again, aren't you."

"Yes."

"Can you... Buck, tell me what _happened_! Please..."

There was silence, again. Then, quietly. "The Winter Soldier." The words seemed _dragged_ out of Bucky's throat. Like he didn't _want_ to allow them near Steve. But ... they were there, and they were a start, Steve thought. He was going to _find out_ what happened, and who did this all to his friend, and there _was_ going to be hell to pay. "And now they'll come to retrieve me. So I'm laying low." A beat, but before he could muster more words, Bucky added, "I'm sorry, Steve."

Then he launched himself into motion away, flying away in the pale night. 

 

Trying to do something about Bucky's answer turned out to be harder than he'd anticipated. And he even asked Jarvis for help. Not Tony, that would require an explanation, but Jarvis... should have been able to dig something up. There was almost nothing. A rumor. An assassin who showed up over the span of a war that Steve was just getting to learn about. The war that followed his war, and some of the following few days was spent reading up on that. The Cold War. It turned out to be fascinating. And horrifying. 

It didn't give him answers. Not... direct ones, at any rate. By the end of a week, he was going out of his mind, trying to fit the pieces together. So he did what he always did when he couldn't quite think his way through something. He drew.

Unsurprisingly, most of his sketches were of Bucky. Bucky as a kid as he remembered, Bucky as a soldier. A few little flashes of remembered... touch, more than sight. Writing the letters Bucky had told him in different scripts. Mostly, he drew at home. But some meetings were just too... long. 

That's where Natasha saw it. Her hand lashed out and grabbed his wrist in a vise-like grip, and he blinked up at her. She held his gaze for a long moment, her own so full that he couldn't figure it out, then turned to listen to the agent in front of them. Clint and Tony frowned at them. Natasha ignored them; Steve just shrugged. 

But he closed his notebook and kept it closed and _in_ his hand until he could seek Natasha out privately. 

She found him first, the door hissing behind her as she stalked to the table, plopping a small round item that made some sort of white noise that quickly faded when she turned it on. Then she rounded up on him. 

"The Winter Soldier." Her accent was thicker than usual. He didn't think she was pretending. "What do you know about him?"

"Natasha..."

" _What?_ "

"I... think he's the one that took the shot on me, week before last."

She stared, then closed her eyes. " _Bog moy._ "

That got Steve to start up. "Why? What do _you_ know about him?"

"He was... he trained me. He was the _best_. And he won't stop until he's completed the mission. No matter how safe you stay."

Steve managed to keep himself from shaking his head, but just barely. Because he was too busy staring. "Natasha." And his voice lowered, its urgency rising up to her own. "What do you _know_?"

She stood there, still - yeah, he could actually see it now that she'd spelled it out for him. The way their bodies froze, tense and attentive and perfectly ready to lash out in the direction they needed. The way they kept their eyes alert, even when upset or unsettled. _Or throwing up?_

"What do you know about the way I was trained?"

"Not... much. Your file has clearly been censored down to the pertinent details. I haven't actually thought it a good idea to ask."

Natasha sighed, then took a seat, not looking to see if he followed suit. He didn't, not right away. 

"I had... a complicated childhood. One that left me in some very sticky situations that I needed to find my way out of on my own. Or fight my way out of. That... did not remain unobserved by the Russian Government. Soviet government, then. I was... very young, when I was recruited, into a special project. It was called the Red Room, a subdivision of Project X. It... trained girls to become deadly, perfect weapons for the Motherland in the Cold War. Very deadly. 

"I was... the best they ever found. If not necessarily by a _wide_ margin, not after everything. We were trained and grown into the the ultimate weapons, including mind control, coercion, experimentation... They covered all their bases, and then some. 

"The top of the groups, when we became _good enough_ , were trained by _him_ , though. He _was_ their perfect weapon, only male. But he wasn't Russian. What he was, he did not remember, but he was... efficient." Somehow, Steve thought the word she replaced there was _brutal_. At the same time, her face was softer than when talking about the rest of the program. "He'd lost his left arm - the word was that he'd been killed, and the arm was what they couldn't save out of him when they revived him--"

A small noise escaped Steve's throat, and Natasha shot him a questioning look. He just swallowed and shook his head. He didn't _know_ that it was what had happened... but it matched too well. Damage as the fall from that train - that an arm couldn't have been saved was very believable. _Buck... I'm sorry..._

"By the time I knew him, it was replaced by a bionic one," Natasha continued after determining that, no, Steve wasn't going to clarify his reaction. "It was a work of art, supposedly off stolen plans from London. I'm sure Stark would be able to make something much better, but, at the time, it was top of the art. And he used it flawlessly. He _was_ flawless. He... he learned what needed to be known, he was the best fighter - I've seen him do almost everything _without_ the arm, too, he was _that_ good. Brilliant, implacable, faithful. As though he was a blank slate before the Project had him."

"As though?"

Natasha looked down. "There were things that slipped by their eyes. He could even keep secrets from them. Which they... knew. So when they weren't using him, they kept him in stasis."

"And he was _your_ teacher." There was something Steve heard in his own question that he didn't quite like the sound of. 

Natasha's chin tilted up. "He was mine." 

It made Steve want to snap - at her, at himself, he didn't know which. Instead, he took a calming breath, and opened the notebook to the page before the one she'd seen. Her eyebrows jumped up, then drew down. "Yes. But he is... older?" 

"Can you help me find him?"

"You want to find _him_? _Why_?"

Steve let his hand drop on top of the paper, one finger light over the cheek of the sketch. "He's here. Natasha, he is _Bucky_. That's... Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. We _grew up_ together." Her eyes were wide. Vulnerable. 

"James..."

"Bucky. He didn't take the shot on me in a way that would hit me, because whatever they had on him cracked. But he's a mess, and he's my friend, and I've gotta help him. Please. He's on the run, but you learned how to run from them, and you learned it--"

"From him. Yes."

"Will you help me?"

She was silent for a while, eyes fixed into one point. Then she looked up at him. "Yes."

"Is this... red on your ledger?"

Her mouth twitched. "No. This is... the ghost of my past."

"... _oh_." He couldn't really come up with anything more coherent.

 

It took Natasha nearly a hundred hours to locate Bucky. Steve slept none of them, but he was still very much awake when he snuck into the building, following her instructions word for word. Except for one thing. 

When he reached Bucky's door, he didn't go for the passwords she told him. Instead, he knocked their old 'Bucky, are you with a girl or can I come in?' signal. The door opened almost immediately. And there wasn't a gun pointed at his face. Bucky stepped aside, letting him in, then took a quick look up and down the hallway before closing and locking the door again. 

He looked... better, and worse both. The long hair was gone, trimmed down to Bucky's old preferred length. He was clean shaven, and there was certainly no trace of vomit around him. Or the room. It was... militarily, impersonally maintained, its owner only a blink away from leaving it without regret. 

"Steve... how did you..."

Instead of answering, Steve pointed to the window. Natasha was already making a short work of opening that, and Bucky... froze. 

That was different from the way the two of them would grow still. It was much closer to the confusion-slash-panic that Steve had first found him in, except there was something else. There was... warmth. It made Steve swallow, nervously. This was...

_Not now. Think of this later._

And then she was inside, and Bucky shook himself off it. "God _damn_ it, Rogers, if I hadn't found out that you two were teamed up, you'd both be dead right now, you realize?" He pointed a finger at Natasha. "Don't try to sneak up on me like that, little girl. You won't always have this kind of dis--"

The shot passed over her shoulder and hit Bucky squarely in the chest. Neither of them hesitated - Natasha spun about and was returning fire before Bucky made the first pained sound, and Steve was by his side and picking him up, carrying him out of the line of fire before he'd fallen a third of the way down. He was heavy, heavier than his gaunt face would have suggested - but then, there was the arm. That wouldn't be light. 

"Don't you dare do this to me again, Buck, all right? Don't you dare."

"Steve..."

"Yeah?"

"If you ever mention to anyone carrying me like this," his speech was broken and gasping, but clear enough. How much pain had he learned to take? "I'm gonna kick your ass. Clear?"

"Clear as day. Natasha?"

"Go. I've got this. One shooter, and he won't get away."

"Okay. I'll..."

"Go!"

 

The Avengers were surprised, but somber - yes, even Tony - when their first public gathering after the Chitauri invasion turned out to be a funeral. Especially one that left _Steve Rogers_ , among all of them, pale and speechless. Except that, once the name of the man and his association with Cap became clear, they had all read up on the file. The _updated_ file. 

They weren't alone, at the service. Even this long after the war, there were people who recalled Bucky, survivors of the 107th, even an old woman whose parents immigrated after the war who remembered him digging her out of a house shot down by Hydra, even though he was bleeding himself. 

It was... special, in a way. 

Clint was the only one who kept an eye on Natasha, as well. Her sensuous mouth was set in a firm line and her eyes were dry, but she was... forbidding. More than usual. Any actual questions were directed at Steve, anyway. He left when it got too much - but only to make an official apology at the school where the shot had been fired. To reassure them it wouldn't happen again. 

His thoughts kept returning to the thought that he and Natasha had a long conversation ahead of them. 

 

The sounds and smells of a hospital ward penetrated his mind before he was awake enough to question them. Or the pain. Or his identity. 

Then he opened his eyes, blinking wearily. Warily. 

_Not Project X._

That was his first full thought he formulated. 

Breathing hurt, but that was nothing new. It was-- oh.

He took a sharp breath, remembering Steve's worried face hovering over his. Tried to sit up, to get a better look around, but the pain that shot through him suggested he should take it easier. Also made him realize his arm was detached. Great.

"Easy, there." 

The voice was calm, even. Also warm in timbre and slightly amused. Very American. Bucky managed to turn his head towards its source, and there he was. A man slightly past the currently considered middle age, black hair, somewhat receding. The face was calm to match the voice, and clean-shaven, but he was in a hospital gown, not scrubs. 

"Should I call for somebody, or do you think you can manage sitting tight and letting your body adjust, Sergeant?"

Bucky blinked, and stilled immediately, focusing on the man much more intensely. 

The man waved a hand, though his motion favored a wound in his torso as well. "It's all right, I've read as many of Captain Rogers's files as were accessible. How you got here is more confusing, but it would be a shame if I didn't recognize you."

Civilized, urbane speech. Layers and layers of meaning... as hospital roommates went, Bucky could have done worse. 

"I'm... sure that's classified," he managed, after some concentration and effort. 

"Oh," that earned Bucky a slow, bland smile that probably fooled most people. "My name is Phil Coulson, Agent Coulson. I don't think that is going to be a problem."

Bucky frowned. Then, out of God knows what depths, he managed, "rumors of your death have been somewhat exaggerated?" 

The smile warmed up some. "Somewhat."

An _interesting_ recovery companion. That was a first, in a very, very long time. 

Now if he only could figure what to do with the life he'd been granted back... _again_ , Bucky thought he was actually going to be good. 

Novel, that, to wake up to.


End file.
